CHAPTER TEN

G AVIN CRAWLED BACK down the tree.

"There's a goodly number of men. It appears that Laird MacIvey has brought the whole body of his kin. Say…fifty-odd fellows, hiding in the woods."

Rowan considered the odds. They weren't good. But even as Gavin had taken to the height of an old oak to survey their options, he had watched as Bryce MacIvey had discovered the treasure he held.

Now he saw Annie step forward indignantly. "Touch her and the queen will see that y'er disburdened of all that ye hold. How dare ye put your faith in a man such as Laird Huntly, one who has wavered time and again in his own beliefs? Supporting the Covenant of the Protestants one minute, proclaiming Catholicism his true religion the next. Agreeing to his son's arrest one minute, joining him at arms the next?"

"Shut up, old woman," Bryce commanded, his eyes still on Gwenyth.

"She's not an old woman," Gwenyth protested. Rowan had to admit, she was not easily cowed. "I swear, Laird Bryce, if you touch me, you will die. That is both a promise and a prophecy."

"A self-proclaimed witch, are you?" Bryce taunted.

"You will die," she repeated.

"I think we'll consummate the union afore the ceremony," Bryce informed her.

"You are seeking death!" she seethed.

"Oh? I am surrounded by my men. What oracle has assured ye that I'll die?" he taunted.

"A firm belief in God," she informed him.

He moved to touch her face, and she reacted with a blow across his cheek that resounded throughout the forest.

Rowan winced, then felt a hand upon his shoulder. Gavin.

"You'll do her no good dead," Gavin informed him wisely.

And he would not. What they needed was time. A troop of the queen's guard would soon join them.

"Time…we need to play for time," Rowan said.

"They don't know me," Gavin reminded him. He looked at Rowan, a question in his eyes.

"All right," Rowan said at last.

Gavin grinned. "I've no costume, no disguise…but I will prove myself a fine enough actor. Just you wait and see."

I T HAD BEEN A MISTAKE , striking the man. Even if she were the most able swordsman in the country, she could not best the number of men at Bryce's disposal. Nor did she have a sword.

Gwenyth saw that Annie was ready to jump to her defense again, and she was afraid that she was asking only for torture and punishment for them both. And so, as Bryce started to respond and all his men seemed to take a step closer, she spoke quickly. "Stop!"

To her amazement, they all paused.

"Laird Bryce, what you desire is my estate, and that is something you'll acquire only through marriage. You're under the belief that you can perpetrate a rape, and then I'll be forced to marry you. You are mistaken. If you wish to have my lands, then you must make me believe that you are desirable enough to marry."

A slow smile curved his lips. "You are quite unbelievable."

Fergus stepped toward him. "She is playing ye, Bryce. Ye cannae trust her."

There was a sudden thrashing in the trees. Everyone spun to face the sound, and Gwenyth's eyes widened as a man strolled into the small clearing. He was wearing only his hose, breeches and dirty white linen shirt, along with what seemed to be half the forest, leaves in his hair and covering his clothing.

He walked with a strange lurch and came to a stop in the middle of the company, looking around. "Why, 'tis a celebration right here in the heart o' the wood. Welcome, good gentlemen." He sketched a low bow. "Ye've entered me realm. I am Pan o'the Forest. Welcome, welcome, especially if ye've brought some good ale."

Gavin!

This meant that Rowan was not far behind.

"'Tis a lunatic," Bryce said with disgust. "Get him gone."

"Gone?" Gavin protested. "'Tis me abode ye've entered. Ye be gone."

"Do something with him," Bryce demanded of his men.

"Leave him be," Gwenyth said. "Cause injury to one of God's poor creatures and you'll not be a man I would marry."

Fergus strode forward, hands on his hips as he accosted her. "My, we're a fine piece of work, m'lady, are we not? A marriage can—and will—be forced."

"And it will mean nothing, nothing at all, if it is not blessed by the queen," she assured him.

"Or the king," Fergus said smugly.

"You are far more a lunatic than that poor man there," Gwenyth said with a pleasant smile. "Do you think it will be so easy? John Gordon must win the day, and I do not believe he can prevail against the queen's forces. I think you will hang, my good man." She raised her voice, looking around at the men who filled the clearing, some on horseback and others afoot. "And those in your company, if all is lost, will hang, as well."

Rowan had to smile grimly, despite the circumstances, as Bryce's men moved back en masse, if only half a foot or so.

"Don't let the queen's spy unnerve ye from y'er cause!" Fergus cried out. "'Tis fear alone that can vanquish ye, men." He looked at Bryce, working himself into a rage. "Take her, take her now, and be done with it. She's playing ye for a fool, lad. Be a man!"

Fergus's taunt sent Bryce into action. He wrenched Gwenyth toward him, but she was no easy opponent. She lashed out, and Rowan heard Bryce's roar of pain, as the man stumbled back from her again.

It might be the only real chance he had, Rowan knew, and he made his decision with split-second timing.

He drew an arrow, strung his bow, and let the arrow fly.

Bryce was struck dead center in the chest.

He did not even recognize his own death at first, only stood, staring at Gwenyth in shock for a moment, and then, at last, he fell.

"We are surrounded!" someone cried out in fear.

And the troops began to break, horses bolting, men crying out.

"Stay!" Fergus raged, rushing to Bryce's side. He saw immediately that his kinsman was dead, and he rose, staring at Gwenyth in such a rage that Rowan could hold his position no longer. He kneed Styx and went crashing through the forest. The bow and arrow were no longer useful; he drew his sword.

When Fergus strode forward, heedless of repercussion, ready to strangle Gwenyth, she was prepared. She ducked his hold and raced across the clearing, heading for the protection of the trees. Just as she reached them, Rowan burst into the clearing, his sword swinging.

Fergus shouted a fierce order, for not every man had deserted. It seemed there were suddenly men everywhere, some running into the fray in loyal defense of the clan, others running away in pursuit of self-survival.

Rowan's initial aim had been to battle Fergus, but he was diverted from that cause by the onrush of soldiers. Gavin, meanwhile, dropped his pretense of insanity and hurried to Bryce's fallen body, then unsheathed the dead man's sword.

Bryce's men were little match for the training Rowan and Gavin had received from the masters at both the Scottish court and as guests of the English queen. MacIvey's forces began to fall around them.

"Rowan!" came a cry.

It was Gwenyth. A man was rushing him from the rear.

Weaponless, she had nonetheless found a clump of dirt to throw the enemy's way. With his attacker temporarily blinded, her warning and missile gave Rowan time to turn to face the attack.

In seconds they heard the arrival of the queen's men, a multitude of horsemen, thrashing hard and furiously through the forest. At that point, it was a matter of mere minutes before the skirmish was ended.

When he had faced his last enemy, Rowan dismounted and approached Gwenyth, trying to contain his anger.

"You fool! You risked your life, Annie's, Gavin's and mine," he informed her coldly.

She stiffened, staring at him, dignified and regal, despite the soot on her face and the total dishevelment of her person.

"I am on the queen's business," she informed him.

He felt his jaw lock. It was difficult to argue against such a statement, so he turned away.

"You were not asked to risk your life!" she called after him.

He straightened his back and did not turn to face her again but strode back to Styx. She was on the queen's business, was she? Then the queen's personal guard could see that she was safely returned to her mistress.

Besides, he did not want her to see how he was shaking.

T HE SKIRMISH IN THE FIELD was nothing compared to what lay ahead. Rowan didn't have time to worry about what transpired between Gwenyth and the queen; it was imperative that he take command of his own troops, for the real battle was at hand.

In addition, he admitted to himself that he was furious with the queen, and therefore, he knew he had to avoid her. He was astounded that she had so mistrusted his advice that she had apparently needed to have his words verified. And he was horrified that she would let one of her ladies wander into danger rather than rely on the men who were honor bound to serve her with their lives.

He took control of his own forces, under the general command of Laird James and Laird Lindsay, along with Kirkcaldy of the Grange and Cockburn of Ormiston. The queen now had in her service one hundred and twenty harquebusiers and a number of cannon.

The day began with the queen's men firing upon Huntly's numbers upon the hill. They were sorely ravaged by the cannons and the harquebus fire, and began to fall. When the command was given, the cavalry rode in hard, followed by the infantry. The battle became hand to hand.

But the Highlanders never deserted the queen, as Huntly had surely prayed. In the midst of the fighting, as Huntly's troops grew ever thinner, mowed down or slipping away, the remaining men were forced into the swamp, as Rowan had foretold.

He was riding with Laird James when Huntly, Sir John and one of Huntly's younger sons, Adam, were caught and brought before them. As Laird James rode forward to face Huntly, the man stared back. Then, without a word, he tumbled from his horse. Laird James cried out, seeking to know what mockery the great earl was up to, then discovered that the man had died.

Sir John leapt down from his own mount and rushed to his father's side. He was not allowed his grief, for he and his young brother were quickly seized, and Laird Huntly's body was tossed over the haunches of a horse and taken from the scene.

It was over. The swamp was a gruesome arena of dead men, body parts and blood. And the queen's forces, with the support of the countryside, stood triumphant.

A T THE MANOR , G WENYTH paced her quarters restlessly. Mary had ridden out to address her troops before sending them off to fight, but Gwenyth had not been allowed to attend her. She was deeply dismayed and had argued the point, but apparently the queen regretted her decision to send Gwenyth out to spy and was horrified at the danger she had cast her lady into. At first Gwenyth had been certain that Rowan had brought such a grievance before Mary, but then she discovered that he had not seen the queen at all; he had gone to lead his own troops.

Throughout the day, Annie came at intervals to report on what was happening.

Gwenyth could not help but ask about Laird Rowan.

"I've heard naught of him, but the queen's forces hae prevailed throughout the day, m'lady."

As the day faded, Annie returned, filled with news of the victory. "The queen is gloating, radiant. It was a massacre, so they say. And hear this! Laird Huntly died in his saddle, not a mark upon him." Annie paused to laugh. "It was just as Lady Huntly's witches said it would be—he has been brought to the tollbooth at Aberdeen, and there he will lie through the night, not a mark upon him. His heart gave out, I imagine, at the loss. He knew his noble head would fly. I don't know what vengeance the queen will take upon his clan, but this much is sure—the Gordons will no longer defy Queen Mary and keep the nor'east and the Highlands from her rule."

"What of Laird Rowan?" Gwenyth asked.

"I know not, m'lady. I have still heard no word."

When Annie was gone, Gwenyth returned to her pacing. She had obeyed the queen throughout the long day; she had remained in her chambers, safe from danger. But now the battle was over, the day won, and she longed to know that Rowan was all right and to see him. She wasn't certain why. He had been so angry with her, when he'd had no right. They were both servants of the queen. She owed him no explanation.

No matter. She had to see him.

R OWAN FELT WEARY , bathed in blood.

He had chosen to leave his quarters in the manor, and that night he took over one of the smaller hunting lodges just beyond the town, in the forest where the MacIveys had thought to make a stand and win the approval of Huntly. It was now peopled with his own men, the men of Lochraven.

The people had rallied behind the queen, and he'd been surprised to find himself something of a hero to the townsfolk. The servants in the lodge were pleased to have him. The lodge itself was, and had been, a royal holding and not beneath the Huntlys, so perhaps it was natural that those who made their livelihood there were pleased with the outcome of the battle.

They had been merry while preparing the meal he shared with his men, despite the vast amount of labor it entailed. And when he chose a chamber within the lodge, the stableboys and valet were quick to bring him a massive tub, and pot after pot of boiling water, though the steward was afraid that he would wash away all the natural defenses he needed against the "agues tha' migh' be takin' a body" after such exertion as the battle.

Rowan, amused, assured the man that he had enough defense within his body, covered with blood and mud or no.

So it was in the wee hours of the night that he at last lay in the great wooden tub, the room darkened and in sweet shadow, the only light rising from the embers of the fire in the hearth. The steam was rising around him, and he welcomed the feeling of cleanliness and the heat that relaxed his muscles. Laying his head back upon the broad wooden rim, he closed his eyes and let out a sigh, enjoying the sweet sensation of heat and steam. He should be jubilant. They had won. But he was still disturbed.

Mary was proving to be a good queen, but she had also shown that she could act recklessly under duress.

What monarch in history had not? he chided himself.

Was it only because of Gwenyth that he felt so angry? Would he have felt so betrayed had it been one of the queen's other ladies? None among them might have so easily blended with the people here; perhaps Gwenyth had been the best choice.

He realized he was disturbed, as well, because, as yet, they had not found Fergus MacIvey among the dead. The man was dangerous, and it frightened Rowan to think he might still be out there, hatching his plans of revenge, now that the MacIveys would be stripped of their holdings. Clan loyalty was everything in the Highlands, and if Fergus were alive, he would not let the matter rest.

He froze suddenly, muscles going rigid. He'd heard the slightest noise, and it wasn't the snap of a log in the hearth.

Someone was in his chamber.

He opened his eyes to mere slits without otherwise moving. He couldn't believe that his men were anything less than entirely vigilant, but…

A hooded figure was tiptoeing toward the tub. It paused a few feet away, then came closer. Someone come to murder him in his bath? A Huntly loyal, with access to the royal domain, ready to sacrifice all for his death?

His hand shot out, and he heard a startled, feminine cry as his fingers closed around a woman's wrist. He sat up, ready to fight.

"Stop, please! It's me!"

The woolen hood fell back, and as she jerked in response to his sudden attack, the cloak slipped to the floor.

To his amazement, his nocturnal visitor was Lady Gwenyth MacLeod. She was wearing a nightgown and a rich velvet robe, the gown in softest white, the robe a brilliant shade of crimson, richly embroidered. Her hair was loose, her face scrubbed clean, and she looked as innocent as an angel and as sensual as Lilith herself.

With gritted teeth, he tossed her wrist from his hold, staring at her with suspicion and unconcealed anger. "You just took your life in your hands again, you little fool!" he informed her. "What in God's name are you doing here, slinking around my bedchamber?" he demanded.

She rubbed her wrist, backing away, her eyes managing a look of both apology and defiance, all in one. "I am not slinking," she protested.

"You came tiptoeing up to a man in his bath. What reaction did you expect?" he demanded.

"I came to beg pardon, and to explain," she said indignantly.

"And no one informed you I was not available to be seen?" he inquired.

A flush covered her cheeks.

"As if it were not idiotic enough to leave the manor and come here dressed like that, you didn't seek a proper entry, did you?" he inquired.

She hesitated, then shrugged. "I was afraid you would refuse to see me. I entered through the kitchens…. I brought towels," she told him, sweeping an arm toward the trunk at the entry, where she had dropped the linens.

He scowled. The heat from the bath had relaxed him; now there was another sense of heat tearing through him and every muscle in his body was tense again.

"Fine. You're brought towels. That will certainly atone for risking four lives. Would you leave now, please?"

She stared at him, myriad emotions passing swiftly through her eyes, and then she turned to go.

He didn't know what he was thinking.

Or perhaps he wasn't thinking at all.

He sprang out of the tub, catching her before she could reach the door and turning her toward him. Once again, her eyes met his, and for a moment, just for a moment, all her defiance, all her anger, was gone. There was something there as naked as his flesh, something lost and pleading, something that spoke of the time they'd spent in each other's company.

And something else was there, too.

A silent admission that there had always been more between them than the battle, that he had been wrong to blame her for being who and what she was, that she had been wrong to blame him for his honesty. He opened his mouth; he meant to say something. But he didn't.

Instead he drew her to him, pulling her against his wet and naked flesh, and looked long into her eyes, then kissed her lips. He had not intended such a thing; indeed, he had fought against it for what felt like forever. Then he felt her fingers sliding up the dampness of his chest, curving over the muscles of his shoulders, tentatively moving into the wetness of his hair, drawing him closer.

Her mouth returned the slow, simmering passion of his own, and then it erupted. She was sweet, tasting of mint, and of a longing and hunger to know more of him. He trembled there, holding her and feeling, beneath the velvet and linen, the heat of her body, the perfection of her form, the way it melded to his own. He'd not been drinking; there was no excuse for the heady insanity that leapt into his being, his mind, his soul.

He lifted her closer against him and moved to the massive four-poster, but he did not lay her gently down but fell heavily with her to the mattress. Her fingers grew swiftly confident, coursing along his shoulder, his arm, his back. He drew his lips from hers and met her eyes again, and they offered neither protest nor explanation. She moved against him, and he kissed her again, swiftly growing ravenous to taste more and more of the sweetness of her mouth as her lips parted and her tongue parried his.

The velvet robe had come open. He found her throat, the flesh of her breasts, his hand moving over the thin linen gown. She moved against him, fingers taut now in his hair, the writhing of her body stoking the sure madness of fire in him. He felt her lips upon his shoulders, the instinctive play of her tongue. He moved still further against her, lips moist fire against her, until he wanted more than he could have with the fabric in the way.

In the glow of the fire, he rose. He met her eyes, as enigmatic as the shadows, as he stripped both velvet and cotton from her, and lay down again to cradle her against him, flesh to flesh. Once more he caressed her with the liquid flame of his lips, stroking his hands over the smoothness of her flesh, cherishing the heated, vital feel of it. It occurred to him that they could both be damned for this indiscretion, she, the queen's lady and he, her sworn protector. But damnation would be a worthwhile price to pay for this moment, when the world seemed right, when his senses and soul seemed to be filled after years of emptiness, when it felt as if he had found the very essence that had been missing from his existence and now made him soar.

She gasped and arched against his touch, and as her fingers and lips played over him, he lost himself in the scent of her, the slight brush of her fingers, the exquisite and agonizing touch of her tongue. She moved her body against the length of him, her hair trailing like silk over his skin, arousing, exciting. He knew she was fragile, that he must take care, and yet, as they loved one another with lips and touch, he knew the rising thunder of an exultant passion, and as the minutes of tenderness slipped by, his strength and ardor grew. With her beneath him, he slid against her, lips finding every inch of her, paying the most evocative attention to her breasts until small gasps escaped her, then moving lower to caress her midriff and belly. He eased himself along her length, tending then to her ankles, calves and upward along her inner thigh…

And then to the heart of her sex.

She clutched his back, raked her fingers through his hair. He felt the touch of her fingertips sliding along his back, not caressing, but holding on, feverish…intense. Felt the startled jolt and shift of her body, the expulsion of her breath, as she gasped and cried out….

He rose above her, met her eyes, took her lips again…kissed her as he adjusted his body over hers, then slid smoothly into her, mindful to move slowly and with great care, despite the lightning tearing through his own veins.

She never cried out then, but she clung to him as he eased the thrust and glide of his hips, drawing her surely into the rhythm he set, and when he felt her rock and shudder beneath him, he allowed all the power he had held in abeyance to flood free. Her arms wound around him tightly as she all but melted into him.

And then she moved…

Moved in a way that brought sheer pleasure and madness leaping through him, his limbs, his sex. Time was gone; fire and shadows were gone. The world was pure darkness and sheer, shocking light. She was no longer fragile, she was a whirl of fever and passion, sliding against him, rubbing the length of his body, sheathing his sex.

He fought the explosion of climax, longing for her to know it first. And then, just when he thought he would die of the blaze consuming him, she shuddered, strained, went limp, and he allowed himself the rocket fire of a shuddering, volatile explosion within her. Again, again, the tremors racked through him, and then, even then, she held him, was one with him, trembling, clinging….

A long while later, he eased to his side next to her. Her eyes were closed now, and she quickly found a place against his shoulder, her head resting upon his chest.

He sought desperately for the right words to say. And as he did so, he admitted to himself at last why he had felt such anger for her, why he had needed so desperately to be away from her.

It was easy to bed a whore.

It was hard to love.

She had, all unintentionally, beckoned and beguiled him from the moment he had seen her. When he'd had no right to feel such fascination, she had seduced him blithely from the beginning, and it had been no fault of her own.

He had not been able to bear his own disloyalty to Catherine, because while she had lived, he owed her his love.

She didn't speak, and the right words continued to escape him. Even though he was compelled and attracted, he was not at all certain he could say what he felt, and so he resorted to irony.

"Far better than towels," he said.

At that, she moved, contentment turning swiftly to fury. She started to rise, but he held on to her, at which point he discovered to his amazement that she was well-versed in Gaelic curses. "Let me up!" she demanded.

He pulled her close instead, trying not to laugh. Her eyes could change so quickly. Right now they were the color of the hottest fire—almost demonic against the shadows.

"No. Stay," he urged, his voice soft, the power in his arms more than matching her own.

"Not if you intend to mock me again," she said, and he had to try very hard not to smile, her words were so prim and dignified despite the fact that she was lying naked on his bed.

"I would not dream of mocking you."

"Listen to your voice! You mock me by telling me that you would not mock me."

She was still straining against him, features so beautiful in the firelight, hair like a cloak of crimson and gold. He did laugh then, which further infuriated her, but he rolled, pinning her to the bed, so she had no chance of escape.

"I swear I'm not mocking you. And if you came to offer an apology, I assure you, I have never had pardon begged of me so magnificently."

"I swear, if you don't stop—"

"Stop what? I don't know what words to say to you. Am I glad that you are here? Aye. Am I incredulous that you arrived as you did…that you gave to me as you did? Indeed. You want the truth? All of it? I thought you a rare beauty the first time I saw your face. I thought you a treasure indeed fit to serve a queen. Was I afraid of you? Beyond all doubt."

She relaxed slightly beneath him, puzzled then, and still wary. "Afraid of me? Perhaps that is the worst mockery, my Laird Rowan."

She grew still, and he shook his head, gently easing his fingers into her hair, marveling again at the sight of her. "Nay, lass, believe that I feared you."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted…this. I wanted you so much, when it was so wrong."

Her lashes fell, thick and radiant, over her eyes. "It is still wrong," she whispered.

He winced. "Nay. For I have truly mourned my wife. And I loathed myself long enough for wanting you—aye, hating you, even, that I could not be what Catherine needed when she died. Hating myself more. I could forgive myself many things, but not betraying her with my heart."

She stared at him, searching his eyes, as if she was as tormented in her own soul as he was in his.

"If you would seek my remorse that you came here, I fear I cannot give it," he told her.

"I was wrong," she said softly, and a rueful smile played upon her lips, though her eyes remained grave. Her words came as a bare whisper. "I could not allow such an admission, even in my heart, but I came here…for this."

He needed nothing else.

He kissed her again.

And made love to her again. She was even more adventurous, and just as passionate, as beautiful, arousing and exciting. If he had a lifetime, he thought briefly, he would never have enough of her, never tire of the sweet, provocative scent of her flesh, the taste of her lips….

But later, as she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, he feared that regret was slipping into her heart and cradled her against him. "What?" he whispered. He didn't add the words that whispered in his mind: What, my love?

Did he love her? Aye. He loved her as he had loved Catherine. Loved her because she was like Catherine, kind and eager that life should be good, that none should be hurt.

And he loved her because she was nothing like Catherine. She was quick to passion, quick to throw herself into danger at the behest of or for the sake of another. She was a fighter, such a fighter, and she would never admit defeat, even with her dying breath.

"I…" She turned to him. "I should not have come."

"Yes, you should have."

Very gravely, she shook her head. "You don't understand. The queen is the most chaste of women. And her maids…yes, they all love to sing and dance, love costume and pageantry and flirting. But they are…they are good."

"You're very good," he told her, and he bit his lip, knowing the words could mean many things.

"This makes me…. a…"

"No. It's all right. I will make an offer of marriage."

He was stunned when she shook her head vehemently.

"No?" he inquired in shock. He had known that, one day, whether for mutual benefit following long negotiation, or perhaps even through liking, he would marry again. He needed an heir, and for an heir, he needed the proper woman.

He certainly hadn't imagined he would propose—to anyone—so soon. And he certainly hadn't imagined that a woman with a lesser holding than his own would turn him down, especially after coming in her nightclothes to his chamber.

"I cannot marry without the queen's permission."

"You think she will not allow you to marry me?" He was indignant.

That, at last, brought a smile to her lips. "I came here of my own free will and desire," she said very softly. "You do not have to feel compelled to marry me."

"I must marry again, no matter what," he told her.

She stiffened. Wrong words again.

"But you are not compelled to marry me, nor must I marry you, m'laird," she said firmly, and rolled out from under him, ready to rise.

He gently caught her arm. "Where are you going?"

"I have to return. I am one of the queen's ladies. If she awakes, if she feels that she needs me and I am not there, she will worry. And send guards out."

He smiled. She was so grave. Today had been a tremendous victory for the queen. Mary had not just won a battle, she had won her Highlanders. Tonight, if ever, she would sleep well and deeply.

"Not yet," he told her.

"I cannot stay."

"Just a little while longer."

For once, she was easily convinced.